Monday, Monday
by Jada115
Summary: Alan claims the bet he won from Miranda in the last story. All main BL characters belong to David E. Kelley. Miranda and bit characters my own creation. Romance. No slash or flash.


Monday, Monday

Miranda stood in Alan's office, an angry pout on her face, hands on her hips. Alan smiled at her, his eyes bright. He was clearly amused.

"Enjoying this are we?"

He laughed. "I am." He walked around her, looking her up and down, like a buyer inspecting a prize mare. "By the way, the bet was that you speak French."

Annoyed, she cocked an eyebrow at him and crossed her arms over her chest.

"You look as adorable as I predicted you would. The velvet choker…a _very_ nice touch." He ran his finger over the thin black velvet round her neck.

She smirked sarcastically.

"If you're finished gloating over your triumph, I have work to do."

He leaned close to her ear and whispered, "Français s'il vous plait."

She wouldn't dare give him the satisfaction of knowing his velvety voice combined with the French gave her goose bumps. Instead, she glowered at him, huffed and spun, the puffy skirt of her French maid's costume bouncing with each step. Unfortunately for Miranda she ran face to face with Shirley Schmidt. Carl and a few other suits hovered behind Shirley. Miranda stopped short and slowly backed her way into Alan's office and stood against his office door.

Shirley's eyes widened and her nostrils flared when she saw Miranda. Carl's eyes bugged and his mouth fell open. The suits, utterly confused, looked between each other and Shirley, Carl, and Miranda.

Miranda glanced over her shoulder at Alan, fear in her eyes.

"Shirley!" Alan said brightly, stretching open his arms. "And Carl! How thoughtful of you to stop by. It's been ages since we've all gotten together. We really should do this more often."

Miranda curtsied and said in nervous French, "Bonjour madame, messieurs."

The men whispered among themselves ogling Miranda, puzzled.

Alan said to them, "She's new here…French…their customs are very different from ours."

A couple of the men nodded and the others continued to stare.

Shirley turned to the men and said, "Gentlemen, will you excuse us for just a moment? I need a brief conference with Mr. Shore." Then she snapped her eyes at Carl who was still gazing at an embarrassed Miranda and a much amused Alan. "Carl," Shirley said in mock sweetness, "Would you be so kind as to escort these gentlemen to the conference room?" She blinked rapidly, a fake smiled spread over her lips.

"Yes," Carl said, pulling himself to attention and inhaling deeply. "Gentlemen, if you please." He led them around the corner, the men looking around and muttering.

Slowly, Shirley twisted her neck to face Alan and Miranda. She spoke quietly, furiously. "Have you two lost your minds?"

Alan said, putting one hand to his chest, "Perhaps I've lost my mind, but Miranda here only lost a bet. I really can't speak for her mind. Have you lost your mind dear?"

"A bet?"

"Yes," Alan said. She bet me that she could stay on the bull for 10 seconds. She fell off at 9."

"The bull?" Shirley said, narrowing her eyes at Alan. "Is that the name you've given your little appendage these days?"

Alan sniffed a laugh.

"I am seriously…" She took a deep breath, her whole body nearly quaking with anger, her eyes flashing. "…displeased, Alan. If your little spectacle has cost us this account I will fire you myself. Then I will personally see to it that your license is revoked. I will haunt you like a harpy for the rest of your life and will ensure that you never, ever practice law again." Shirley's eyes slid to Miranda. "And _you_."

"Oui madame?"

Alan smirked.

Shirley snapped at Alan, "Why in the hell is speaking French!"

"It was one of the terms of the bet," Alan said calmly.

Shirley exhaled sharply, closed her eyes briefly. Then her lids popped open to reveal wild, angry eyes. Miranda flinched. "I dare not attempt to imagine how big of a part you played in all this but you will go home this instant and change into proper attire."

Miranda's eyes darted between Alan and Shirley. Alan was obviously waiting to see how she would respond. Panicked, her breathing became heavy and rapid.

He delighted in watching he small hollow at the base of her neck sink with her breath. He suddenly felt a deep desire to place a kiss in that shallow concave.

With Shirley furious and Alan smiling Miranda realized this was a game to him—just a game. But maybe it was more than that. Maybe this was also a test to see which side Miranda stood on, to discover what was truly important to her, to discover how far she would really go with him.

At last her fearful eyes fell on Alan and she said in French, "You promised I would not get fired."

He nodded. "You have my word."

She then turned to Shirley and said in French, "I cannot go home and change; it's against the terms of the bet."

Alan smiled. "That's my girl," he said. Then he turned to Shirley and said, "I'm sorry, Shirley but I can not spare Miranda for a single moment. I have some work that needs to be done; we're on a very tight schedule…deadlines and such. I'm sure you understand." He blinked innocently at her.

Shirley's nostrils flared and her lips pinched together. "If you are as smart as I suspect you are Miranda, I will not see you for the rest of the day. You are both on _very _thin ice." She shot each of them a final enraged glare and stormed away.

"Mon Dieu!" Miranda said. She paced to and fro, the skirt bouncing with her steps. She sputtered in broken French about how the firm was going to lose the account, she was going to get fired, Alan would lose his license—all for a stupid bet.

Alan grabbed her arm and she spun to face him. His eyes searched her face and he smoothed her hair. All the laughter had gone out of his eyes. "As crazy as this sounds, I could care less about any of this other stuff; the fact that you stuck to the terms of the bet means everything to me."

Miranda looked up at him, her eyes full of hurt. She said softly, in French, "You really got me in trouble this time. The worst part is that you did it on purpose. And what if I get fired in spite of all your efforts to protect me? While I do get paid well, I don't make $300 grand a year like you do. I _need _my job." Her eyes pleaded with him. She sighed and shook her head, disappointedly. "You've lost touch with the real world, Alan. I guess, it's lucky for you that you have the luxury of forgetting what it's like to _need_ a job. We should all be so lucky."

He started to say something but she turned and flounced away. He watched her pensively. "Hm," he mused.

* * *

Since Miranda had little to say to him for the rest of the day, Alan and Denny went to dinner without her.

"Where do you want to go?" Alan said, pushing the elevator button.

"You owe me a steak dinner."

Alan looked at him quizzically then remembered. "Oh yes. But how do you determine that Miranda won that fight?"

They stepped onto the elevator.

"The other girl went to the hospital." Denny said shrugging.

The elevator doors slid shut and Denny pushed the button for the first level.

Alan nodded. "I see. Where do you want to go?"

"Malone's."

"Malone's again?" Alan whined. "We were just there last week."

"I like Malone's."

"How about The Oak Room?"

"The Oak Room?" Denny said querulously.

"I love the atmosphere there. It's very posh."

"Atmosphere?" Denny looked at him. "What kind of Nancy are you?"

"The kind who enjoys a nice atmosphere with my food. Atmosphere is over half the meal."

Denny chuffed. "Nonsense. The steak is all that matters."

"Fine." Alan said, annoyed. "If you want to go to Malone's _again_, we will go to Malone's."

Denny back-peddled. "Well, if you really want to go to The Oak Room we can go to The Oak Room."

"No, never mind; it's not important. We'll go to Malone's."

The door slid open and they stepped off the elevator.

Denny looked at Alan. "If we go to Malone's are you going to be snippy for the rest of night?"

"No, Denny," Alan sighed, exasperated. "I will not be snippy. We will go to Malone's and we will have a fabulous time." He rolled his eyes.

"I don't know why you care anyway. You won't get the steak. You'll get the lobster."

Alan stopped and turned on him. "How do you know?"

Denny barked, "Because I know you and you _always _get the lobster!"

Alan huffed and walked out the door, shaking his head. Denny followed.

"And if you owe me a steak dinner, and I'm going to get the steak, we need to go to a place where _I _think the steak is the best—and that's Malone's!"

"Fine. Just get in the car," Alan said, sliding into Denny's limo.

"What's got you so bunched up tonight?" Denny said, as the driver closed the door on them.

"I don't want to talk about it right now," Alan said, adjusting his suit coat.

Denny said, "Did I ever tell you about the time I went duck hunting with Dick Cheney in the backwoods of North Carolina?"

Alan knew Denny was just attempting to distract his mind from darker thoughts and was happy for the reprieve.

Denny and Alan soon arrived at Malone's and ordered their meals.

"So where's Miranda?" Denny said, leaning on the table, one hand on his wine glass.

"She's still angry with me, I think," Alan said, sipping his white wine.

"What's she angry about?" Denny said, scooping up mashed potatoes with his fork.

Alan smoothed his hand over the white table cloth. "Seems I went too far and embarrassed her in front of Shirley. Perhaps the French maid costume was a bit…too much."

Denny swallowed his potatoes. "I liked it. Good move. I think we should make it a uniform for all assistants." He picked up his steak knife and cut into his steak.

"I think you're the only one who supports me in this." Alan chewed thoughtfully on his lobster. Finally he said, "Shirley is angry too."

"Man," Denny chuckled. "You managed to piss off both women at once."

"Yes. Seems I have quite a knack for it."

"Why is Shirley mad?" Denny said putting a piece of steak in his mouth.

"Because I intentionally claimed the bet on same the day she brought in the new anti-trust clients to tour the firm."

Denny lifted his eyebrows, chewing. He shook his head. "So?"

Alan wavered. "Well these particular clients are very conservative. She thinks I may have jeopardized the account."

"Which one?"

"The Reison Corp. Group."

Denny nodded pensively.

Alan fingered the stem of his wine glass. "She has threatened to fire me and have my license revoked if I have in any way hindered the firm's chances of getting the account."

Denny polished off his wine and poured another glass. "Ah," he said, waving his hand. "I wouldn't worry about it. I play golf with Jim Trenton."

"Who's that?"

"The head CEO of Reison Corp. Why do you think they've decided to move their account to our firm?"

"You play golf?"

"On occasion."

"I never knew that."

Denny said, "I don't spend every minute with you. I have a life outside of…us."

Alan dithered, pouting a little. "Well, I know, but it seems you would have at least told me."

"You're going to be snippy about this now I suppose." Denny cut at his steak angrily.

"I'm not getting snippy. I just would have liked it if I had known—that's all."

"Why does it matter?"

"I don't know; it just does."

"You're going to give me indigestion. Isn't enough that I'm getting your ass out of hot water?"

Alan set his jaw. "You're right. I apologize. Let's just enjoy the rest of our meal."

"In the morning I'll talk with Jim. I'll explain everything to him. He'll understand. The account is safe. Don't worry."

"Well, I'm afraid that only takes care of one angry woman."

Denny tightened his lips, thinking, nodding, his fork and knife hovering over his plate. Finally he said, "Send her some flowers or something. Girls love flowers."

Alan chuckled dryly, "I don't think a dozen roses are going to fix this, Denny."

"Send two dozen-red."

Alan rolled his eyes.

Denny peered at Alan over his steak while Alan stared at his half-eaten lobster. Finally he said, beating around the subject. "Well, I guess if Miranda is still angry at you…"

Alan looked up at him hopefully.

"If you don't want to….you know…sleep alone…"

"A sleep over?" Alan said brightly. "I'd love to."

"Aw. Never mind."

"Why what's wrong?"

"Why do you have to get all soft on me?"

Alan ignored Denny's complaint. "Can we have popcorn?"

"Only if we can have real butter this time."

"Okay."

"And lots of salt."

"Fine. We'll do separate bowls. I don't like all the salt you put on it."

"Hot Tamales?"

"And Red Hots too?"

"Of course."

Alan beamed. "Thank you, Denny. I feel better already."

* * *

Denny fell asleep propped up on his pillows against the headboard of the bed a bowl half full of popcorn resting between his arm and ribcage. Alan sat up, flipping through the channels. His eyes felt heavy, his mind tired, yet when he closed his eyes to sleep, it would not come. Rather images and voices and words spun and swirled and rattled in his mind. He opened his eyes again, staring at an infomercial for a knife that can cut through steel.

At some point, and he knew not when, he dozed off and woke to the burn of acid in his throat. He sat up in a cold sweat, reeling from nausea. Apparently his acid reflux had returned. He groaned and perched on the edge of the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees. He looked at the clock. Only eleven? He laughed inwardly, feeling old. Memories of his law school days when he pulled all-nighters crept back to him on ghostly feet. A time so long ago, a time when he lived and understood the real world. Miranda had accused him of losing sight of that. Her truth stung. He _had_ lost touch. He no longer felt the desperation, the urgency, or the necessity of keeping a job. His heart sank with this knowledge. He had lived so long in the world of high ideals, of the desire to save the world, save humanity that he had forgotten what it was like to live among the humans he wanted to save—in the world _they _lived in—in the _real_ world. Miranda was right. As much as her words drove like thorns into his flesh, as much as it piqued him, she was right. Worse, she was angry with him and he couldn't stand it.

He was accustomed to people being angry at him. Hell, there were times when he even cultivated people's anger—like Shirley and Carl earlier today and Paul before them. Sometimes, he missed Paul because he was so easy—so easy to push beyond the limits. He admitted to himself that he enjoyed pushing people's buttons, maybe even got off on it. There was a time when only Denny's anger bothered him. But now he discovered he did not like it when he was the focus of Miranda's anger. He found himself knowing and avoiding pushing certain buttons of hers.

Yet, there was that within him that wanted to push beyond the boundaries. Test the limits. Yes, test; today was a test wasn't it? He had become increasingly close and intimate with her, without realizing it, and he had become increasingly anxious about it when he did finally realize it. He couldn't do it again, put himself out there on a limb always worrying, wondering when she would have enough, when she would decide to leave him; so many had left him before her. He had grown so tired of the rejection that he had begun rejecting women before they had the opportunity to abandon him—that is until he met Miranda. She drew him to her like a moth to a flame.

Tara. He didn't mean to think of her right now. Just like Miranda, Tara had said she loved him. But in the end, Tara had her limits, and they were much closer than he had imagined they would be and so she left. She loved him, or so she said, and she left. So now he couldn't help but wonder how far Miranda would go for him. Where were her limits? And when would it be enough? When would he know that she had passed the test? He didn't have the answer to that right now. But the answer to his other problem, the one that had eluded him at dinner, the answer to the problem that had quietly gnawed at the edges of his mind like a mouse all night, came to light and he knew what to do.

He stood up and grabbed his coat and wrote a note to Denny: _I'll be back soon. There's something I need to take care of._

He borrowed the keys to Denny's BMW and quietly slipped out the door.

* * *

Miranda opened her eyes to see the slivers of moonlight cut across her bed through the blinds. She thought she heard something. She lay very still in bed, listening intently. She heard it again. It sounded like her doorbell. She cast off the bed covers with a yawn and crawled out of bed. She put on her robe and shuffled to the front door. The bell rang again. She flipped on the hall light, slumped down the stairs, her hair in disarray, as she tied the robe around her. The bell rang again. She landed in the foyer and peered through the peephole.

"Alan?" she muttered to herself. She unlocked the door and opened it. He stood there in his striped pajama bottoms, t-shirt and coat. He had large bags under his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" she said squinting against the porch light.

"May I come in?"

She stepped back, opening the door wider. He stepped in and she closed the door.

"What time is it?"

"I guess about 11:30. I'm surprised you're in bed."

She shrugged. "I guess I had nothing better to do."

He smiled half-heartedly. His eyes dropped over her robe. She did indeed keep that ratty old terry robe he despised. He laughed inwardly.

She turned and sat on the next to last step. "So what's going on?" The bottom of the robe fell away to reveal her pale, shapely legs. He noticed she had painted her toenails red.

He stepped slowly toward her. "I'm apologize, Miranda. I pushed things too far…as I am often wont to do." He looked down into her face. He reached down and touched her pointed chin. The scratches still marked her face. "I took something that should have been fun between us, perhaps only mildly embarrassing for you, and used it to hurt you, potentially undo you."

She wrapped her arms around her knees and looked down at the floor. "I just don't understand why you would do that."

He sat next to her on the stair. She looked at him, hurt in her eyes.

He set his jaw and furrowed his brow. "Perhaps it will help you to know that for a change of pace I'm heartily ashamed of myself for putting you through that."

"Why did you do it?"

He shook his head. "I couldn't begin to explain it."

"Or rather you won't."

He sniffed a laugh. "I suppose that's closer to the truth. You have an uncanny ability for making me see the truth—especially when I'm trying to avoid it."

She toyed with the end of her robe sash.

"You were right this afternoon about me and reality, about me forgetting what it's like to need a job." His voice tightened. "Thank you for showing me what a jerk I've been." He put his hand on her arm. With all the sincerity he could muster he said, "Forgive me for jeopardizing your livelihood—though I must say you looked," he chuckled, "_amazing_ in the costume. That image has been with me all day."

She cocked an eyebrow at him and pursed her lips.

He swallowed hard. "I hope you know I would be lost without you at the firm."

Her eyes softened and drifted over his face. She looked away again, resting her chin in her hand. She too felt vulnerable, exposed, tender as burned skin and wanted to shield herself. Truth was, she had already forgiven him, but was hesitant to let him know it.

"If it helps, you should know that Denny will smooth everything over and your job is no way in danger."

She sighed. "That does help, actually. I'm thankful for Denny's assistance. He's a good friend to both of us."

The implication in her remark stung.

He nodded and said quietly, "Indeed." He looked at her feet, pale as moon-glow, the blue veins, the little red toe nails curling into the carpet.

They sat quietly for a few moments. He looked at her, her disheveled hair, her ratty robe, her downcast profile. His insides twisted. He touched her hair, lifted a strand to his lips and kissed it. "I really, really like your hair."

She gazed at him, tenderly.

He batted his eyes, a pained look on his face. "I love…" he stopped and choked on the words. "Paris…this time of year. Come to Paris with me."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I want you to come to Paris with me."

She furrowed her brows. "But…I lost the bet."

"I know. But I want to take you any way. I want to share Paris with you."

"Do you think that's going to win my forgiveness?"

He said somberly, "No. But I think it's a good start. I'll make all the arrangements myself tomorrow."

She smiled at him and lowered her eyes. She sighed then lifted her lids, those electric blue eyes penetrating him, knotting his stomach.

"Yes, I suppose it is a pretty good start." She pushed against him playfully.

He put his arm around her and she put her head on his shoulder. She pushed her nose against his shirt to take in his spicy sweet scent.

He looked down at her and kissed her both gently, passionately, as if he were tasting her for the first time.

When they parted he said, "I would like to stay, but I need to get back to Denny. We're having a sleepover. I slipped out while he slept."

"I never asked you stay," she said teasingly. "You presume that I've forgiven you enough to _let_ you stay."

He laughed. "Touché."

She walked him to the door and they kissed goodbye.

* * *

Alan filled up the gas tank before returning to Denny's house. He parked the car, returned the keys to the hook in the kitchen, locked the door and climbed the stairs to the bedroom. He quietly opened the door and stepped inside, closing the door silently. The television still flickered in the dark room. He was relieved to see that apparently Denny was completely unaware that he had left. He removed his coat, laying it on the back of a nearby chair and crawled into bed. He turned off the television and settled into his pillow, snuggling his back up against Denny's arm. His stomach no longer burned and the acidic taste had subsided. He closed his eyes.

Denny said, "So, did she forgive you?"

Alan's eyes popped open. "I think so."

"Glad to hear it. Details tomorrow?"

"Of course."

"Goodnight, Alan."

"Goodnight, Denny."


End file.
